


Well-Mannered

by beaubete



Category: The Hour
Genre: Age Difference, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-15
Updated: 2013-10-15
Packaged: 2017-12-29 12:44:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,262
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1005612
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beaubete/pseuds/beaubete
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lix is fond of breaking other people's toys, especially if they don't intend to play with them themselves.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Well-Mannered

**Author's Note:**

> Set during 1x04.

He’s her beautiful boy, sweet and eager to please.  Not completely inexperienced, but she knows she’s taking something special when he tucks his face into her throat and sighs.  He’s the angular shape of a man wanting, and really, it’s been nearly as painful to watch him wait as it would have been to wait, herself.  He swallows his drink with liquor-loose lips and she thinks of that desperate sadness on his face—it’s his birthday, for crying out loud, and he’d hugged the bench a wallflower after Hector’d shown up—and she knows she’s doing the right thing.  The wrong thing, of course—she’s old enough to be his mother—but the right thing nonetheless.

And his hands are shaking-shy on her hips, just enough whisky in him to pretend at confidence, but when she shivers his jumper down his arms and starts in on the buttons to her blouse, he’s suddenly boyish, charming in his attempts to look like he knows what he’s doing. 

“Don’t be nervous,” she murmurs into the bare skin of his shoulder.  He smiles back wide.

“Right,” he agrees.  It puts a measure of ease into his movements; he touches the button flies at the front of her trousers and pauses, blinking up at her face a bit dazed.  “Right?”

“Right.”  It occurs to her that it might not be nerves; she sees the sad pull of his mouth and bites back some soothing nonsense words, reaching instead for the bottle though she can see him tipping away from amiable drunk and into melancholy.  He takes a mouthful—nothing more—and hands it back.  They’re quite through with excuses for what’s about to happen.  Freddie’s fingers are deft, poet’s hands sure and steady as he trips the buttons one by one.  He’s so certain that this will be numbing.  She knows better, but some lessons are best learned on your own. 

With his hand inside her trousers, he stops again.  She’s hot for him, this boy half her age, and her knickers feel close, warmed by the heat that’s rising between them.  He takes another kiss, rubs his fingertips against the silk of her knickers, and she realizes he’s not sure where to go from here.  It’s endearing.

“Take off your braces, dear boy,” she coaxes, sliding her own hand along his narrow chest to guide the elastic down.  His trousers are too big for him—he lives with his father, she remembers—and they start to fall; he clutches at the band, embarrassed.  “Let them go.”

In his pants, he’s knobby knees and incongruously long limbs, shy and awkward until she reaches brusquely beneath his shirttails to see what she’ll find there, and oh, there’s nothing childlike about what’s waiting.  He’s half hard in her hand, breath hot and heavier as she strokes with smooth slides and he gasps for air.  The waist of his pants is loose and it’s a matter of nothing to plunge her hand in, touch skin and coarse curls and feel him shake against her arm.

“Lix,” he groans.  She grins.

“The best part of bedding a beautiful boy is getting to teach him new tricks,” she confides in him, and his eyes widen, one part nerves and the other anticipation.  She can’t change the things that ought to be different, but she can distract them both for a while.  She continues to stroke.

“I—” he manages to squeak out.  Impressive—if there’s one thing Lix Storm is, she thinks, smile foxy and knowing, it’s efficient; she’s surprised he can string enough thoughts together to have something to say as she strips him with ruthless pulls that have him arching into her grip and curling away at the same time.  “ _Please_.”

“Please?” she asks.  He nods, and though his hips follow as she draws her hand back from his pants, there’s relief on his tongue when he kisses her, hands on both sides of her face.  He’s doting and precious, focused on her in only the way young lovers can be, selfish and in love with the idea of romance.  She doesn’t encourage reciprocal petting—doesn’t want his fumbling attempts while she’s too distracted by his lovely mouth to teach him to do it right—and he doesn’t offer; his eyes close when he kisses and she can taste his submission.  “Lie back.”

And he is her beautiful boy.  Some days, like today, she can only goggle at the way he’s overlooked—he’s tangled and easy, sensual smiles and eyes hungry-wanting—and some days, like today, she knows that’s because he so obviously belongs to someone else that no one will touch.  But Lix has always been a fan of playing with the china dolls from the parlor in their frilly dresses, of drinking the bottle of scotch with a bow around the neck and quaffing the anniversary champagne for the momentous occasion of wanting to; she broke the other girls’ toys as a child, and she’ll break this one, too.  She can’t bear to see dust collecting in his pretty dark hair.  His lashes are stark and long against his cheek, and she wants to make them move.

He’s fully hard, shirttails poking up around the lump of him, but he’s too far gone to be embarrassed.  She slips her knickers down, sets them on the edge of the desk to find them later, and straddles; his eyes go wide and she can’t hold back the mischievous grin as she sinks down, taking him in.

“Oughtn’t I—?” he tries, shifting to sit, but his lips are flushed and ruddy, parted panting, and it takes no more than a roll of her hips to shut him up, his token protests falling silent.  She’ll take what she wants, anyway.  He needn’t worry.

He’s narrow, thin and sleek between her thighs as she fucks him, but big enough where everything counts; he tips his head back into the pillows and cries into the empty air, sweet, lingering sounds that only make sense to a lover.  He’s quickening fast—she could almost regret the feel of his cock hardening in her palm, the delicious way he’d writhed and begged, but the point is to live without regretting—so she drops a hand to the place where they are joined and shows him a thing or two about pleasing a woman with fingers shaking eager between her legs.  He doesn’t watch.  She rubs her thumb through the twists of hair at the root of his cock and he thrums.

“Freddie,” she groans when he touches her breast.  His hands are tentative, exploring, but that’s not what she wants.  She clutches his hands between hers and squeezes hard.  Bless, but he’s a fast learner, and soon he’s digging bruises into her flesh that leave her rocking harder, faster.  Between them he tumbles, hips jerking into her and thrusts enough to break her pace; he comes and his face twists, eyes squint and mouth falls open to let out breathless little sobs of sound.  He’s still beautiful.  She rides him as he softens, rubs at herself until she’s done and he’s under her with eyes wide and soft.  He laughs.

And she lets him have her again, later, as the street lamp’s yellow light bathes the inside of her office, and he doesn’t cry into her shoulder, and she doesn’t imagine having to give him up when the silver-grey light becomes dawn.  He doesn’t say the name on his lips; she doesn’t say hers, either.  And he thanks her when he goes, like a well-mannered boy.


End file.
